Page 37 of Mastered By the Viking King

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She gasped, the jiggling of her breasts making the one bit of pear slide down between them.

“Keep still,” he murmured, still tipping the jug. “There is more berry juice to come.”

He filled her navel with the juice, a trickle leaking to the right. He leaned forward and licked it away.

A thrill went through Tove. Seeing his tongue coated in the juice and his eyes closed, she knew Njal was clearly enjoying the moment. It was more than she could have ever hoped for to see him enjoy her body so.

“Njal,” she whispered. “I am yours.”

He lifted up a fraction, smiled, then pushed her thighs apart. “I know, and I wish to sup juice from the sweet lips between your legs.”

“Oh, in the name of all the gods!”

Was he going to put his tongue down there?

“Tell me this ismycunny.”

Her inner thighs quivered as the lips of her sex were exposed to his gaze.

“Say it.” He tipped juice onto her patch of hair, soaking it.

“Oh…” A cold, wet slice of pear slid down her side to the furs. “Aye, it is your cunny, my king. Yours.”

“To do with as I please.” He moved further down, giving himself a better view as he continued to soak her pubic hair with the sweet juice. “Say it.”

“To do with… as you… please.” She clenched her muscles, aware that she was damp between her legs. Not with the juice of the fruit—but with her arousal.

The fruit juice began to seep through her folds, tickling its way to her entrance.

She held her breath. It was such a gentle sensation, but under his scrutiny she found it to be as erotic as a firm touch of fingers.

She was drenched and sticky with the red juice, her belly taut, arms aching.

He tipped the last drip onto her pubic hair, then set the jug aside.

In an instant, he was between her legs, his wide shoulders pushing up against her inner thighs.

“Njal,” she gasped.

“Shh, enjoy this. It is your reward for speaking as a queen should to her people.” He dragged his beard over her inner thigh.

She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants.

His tongue connected with her sex, sliding from her entrance up to her sweet spot.

She cried out, bowing her back and losing the rest of pears entirely. Even the cube of apple fell to the bed. What he was doing was so crude and base, but in the name of Freya, it feltsogood.

He stroked and licked, exploring her folds, lapping at the juice.

Her pulse thudded in her ears, competing with the soft, wet sounds he was making.

“You are so sweet,” he murmured, his fingers winding up her inner leg.

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